


North by North

by Skylark



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Exorcists, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Rituals, Social Networking, Traditions, Wakes & Funerals, Youkai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three funerals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	North by North

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/gifts).



> [Title credit.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IOLTn_5Y51A)
> 
> I've never read the manga, so I apologize if I contradict manga canon. Also, since the Matoba clan is involved in this fic, they treat youkai about the same way they do in canon. Fair warning.

The more relatives come to visit the already crowded house, the easier it becomes for Shuuichi to disappear. Everyone seems so busy, planning the funeral, comforting each other, and cooking enough to feed everyone his mother was connected to. He had no idea she was so important.

Shuuichi moves in a bubble—no one approaches him, and his father is always screened behind a wall of in-laws. But it's not as if no one pays him attention. He's still young, but he's old enough to realize that when he's in a room, he's the focus of it. Eyes flicker down when he looks up, and heads turn away. 

His uncles are the boldest: when he looks at them, they glare back. They don't say a word to him, but they're easy to overhear when he passes by. “Bad luck,” he hears. “His fault.”

Even though the tatami mats are heavy with the weight of a hundred strangers, it's still his house, his and his father's, and so he knows it better than anyone. He hides in the crawlspaces and closets that no one checks, eyes watering sometimes from the mothballs and the dust, and breathes—just breathes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel the fading warmth of his mother's hand on his hair. 

Only his mother was able to find him when he went to ground like this. His mother, and the youkai.

He tends to ignore the call for supper, but his stomach is growling in earnest today and he is very tired. Shuuichi crawls down the ladder from the attic and his aunt tsks at him, marches him to his room to change into presentable clothes that aren't covered in dust and cobwebs. She rummages through his clothes drawers and yanks a sweater over his head with more force than is necessary. 

He glances at the mirror across the room and is startled by the sight of the small black lizard on his cheek, its tail flicked lazily across the bridge of his nose.

He watches the youkai move, turning to crawl across his eye and up to his forehead. “Your mother would be so disappointed if she could see you like this,” his aunt tells him over his head.

For the first time all week, Shuuichi's eyes fill with tears.

\--

After the funeral is over and everyone has left, his father finds him scratching at the back of his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asks. Shuuichi can hear the note of weariness in his voice. It's been there for months now, even before his mother died. “Let me see.”

His father reaches for him, but Shuuichi pulls back. “I-it's nothing,” he says. “Just a bug bite.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the youkai slink over the edge of his hand to hide in the hollow of his palm. He forces himself to look up, forces himself to smile. His voice is light, and shakes only slightly. “Don't worry. I'm okay.”

He's never lied to his father about the things he can see before now, and he can see him considering his son's words. After a moment, he sighs.

“All right,” he says, patting Shuuichi on the back. “Sorry. I'll buy some candles next time I go to the store.”

When he's older, his father arranges for him to live with relatives who share his spiritual power, and learns all he can about controlling his abilities. The rest comes easier over time: tiptoeing around his father to keep him from worrying, lying to his mother's family and the few friends he makes. After that, acting is effortless.

\----

When his father passes away, there are two ceremonies that must be performed: one to give him funeral rites, and one to instate Seiji as the new head of the Matoba clan. It's the latter that takes up most of Seiji's attention, filling his days with fittings, rituals, and fasting. A fortuneteller is consulted for the most auspicious day to hold the ceremony.

When the foretold day arrives, his entire clan fills the cavern beneath the clan's ancestral home. The space is eerily quiet, and Seiji can hear the sound of his own breathing. The air above the gathering is empty, and the walls, ceiling, and floor gleam with protective magic. The alcove just outside the room is littered with sealing bottles, each with a youkai waiting inside for its master to return.

Rites had already been given to his father's body earlier that morning. His father's ashes are close at hand, a soft black that seems to absorb the light. Seiji tries not to look at them.

More sealing bottles are resting in the center of the low stage, trembling with the youkai's efforts to free themselves. Since his father's death, their seals are starting to weaken. Unlike the other youkai in the family's possession, whose seals the clan maintains throughout the centuries, these have been allowed to decay in preparation for this moment. 

When the head priest turns and nods, Seiji rises to his feet. His five-crested kimono is heavy and stiff, the beads a dragging weight around his neck; he stands straight anyway. Seiji is young, but he knows what is expected.

“Future head of the Matoba clan,” the priest says to him. “If you would claim your father's place as your own, you must begin by taking his servants.”

Seiji balls his hands into fists to hide their trembling. He can feel a thousand eyes on his back as he steps towards the bottles. He paces around them once, checking that the circle he'd drawn beneath them is perfect. 

Then he reaches down, gathers a handful of his father's ashes, and throws them across the circle.

Blue lightning crawls across the surface of the bottles before they shatter. There's a flash of light and then his father's youkai crowd the air before him. They squirm around and over each other, the sight dizzying enough to make his stomach turn, but he doesn't close his eyes. Instead, he crouches to keep his footing in the strong rising wind, suddenly glad for the extra weight of his attire, the grounding force of all the eyes trained upon him.

 _People have died during the clan head ceremony,_ he was told during his preparations. _Do not think that your position is promised to you. If you fail, you can and will be replaced._

Seiji grits his teeth and takes a step forward. His arms ache as he lifts his hands and claps once, reciting the sealing chant in the faces of the youkai that fight to be free of the circle below them. They roar back, and his lone voice rises, barely audible over the din.

He never forgets the moment their screams of rage turn to ones of pain.

Before the eyes of everyone watching, the youkai start to dissolve into black mist. He reaches into his sleeve, still chanting, and draws out a ceramic mask. He throws that, too, into the circle, and the clouds start to shift and take shape, whittling down to long limbs and a blank face.

The shiki servants he's made before were easier than this—drawing on the latent energy of the area, or from weaker youkai than these. He's running out of breath, gasping for air between chants, and his hands are starting to shake.

On the chant's last words, his voice rises to a shout. In response there's a clap of thunder and the blue lightning vanishes, leaving grey smoke and a large shiki servant in its wake. It turns to him and stills, waiting for his command. 

The room rings with silence, and again Seiji can hear the sound of his own breathing, harsh now. He wavers on his feet but doesn't fall.

“Kneel,” he commands, and the servant obeys.

\----

The exorcist community is not what one would call close-knit. They come together rarely—once every seven years for the gathering of conjurers, and now and again for funerals.

Natori stands at the back of the crowd, hands tucked into his pockets and his head lowered. His appearance here is more for show than for any real sentiment; his clan picked him to send their sympathies, that's all. He hardly knew the deceased, but her clan is important enough to warrant the courtesy.

He's thinking of stepping outside for a breath of fresh air when he hears someone call his name. When he looks up, he sees a familiar fall of black hair. “Matoba-san,” he says, scraping up a smile. “You're looking well.”

Matoba shifts so that they're face-to-face. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

Natori cocks his head, and the movement ducks him out of Matoba's narrow field of vision. Matoba turns his head in response, his single eye narrowing, and Natori's smile solidifies.

“Well,” he says, “it is a funeral. I'm not the only unhappy face.”

“Speaking of faces,” Matoba says, and reaches out. Natori freezes as the tip of Matoba's finger traces along his jawline, then curls upward to tap against his mouth. “Why haven't you gotten rid of this youkai yet? Don't tell me you've gotten attached to it.”

Natori shrugs, taking in a slow, deep breath and trying to make his muscles relax. Matoba is simply being impolite, he tells himself, not threatening. There's no danger here. Once he's gotten himself under control, he glances up—only to see Matoba staring at him with a cool, impartial gaze, as if he's an insect under glass.

“Matoba-san,” he murmurs with a slight laugh, “I don't believe that's any of your business.”

Matoba leans back, and Natori breathes a little easier.

“It's a very interesting specimen,” Matoba says. “If you needed assistance with it...”

Natori chuckles, holding up a hand. “Oh, I couldn't ask that of you. I wouldn't have anything to offer as payment.”

The other man raises an eyebrow, looking him over. Natori just continues to smile, placid as before. “You're right,” Matoba says. “I suppose you don't.”

Natori's mouth tightens, and Matoba's eye narrows in amusement. Before either of them can say more, however, the noise level of the room increases. Natori looks up and sees a collection of people by the entrance. “It seems the head of the family has arrived,” Natori murmurs. “If you'll excuse me, Matoba-san, I have to pay my respects.”

“Of course. I'll see you again, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Natori agrees with a parting smile before he slips away. 

As Natori moves through the crowd, he can feel Matoba's gaze on his back. He hates funerals, he thinks, even as he touches people's shoulders and offers his condolences, stock phrases and stock sighs falling from his mouth. He hates the watching eyes, the assessments, the grief. After he speaks to the mourning clan, he decides to leave as soon as is polite. Matoba, though, will probably stay until the very end. A different sort of respect—a different sort of interest, too. He wouldn't call it macabre, exactly, but Matoba always sees things through until he's satisfied with their conclusions.

He frowns for a moment, thinking of himself, before he puts it from his mind.


End file.
